A/N: Just a quick note: Grumman's relationship to Riza is ambiguous here (other than what's stated in this chapter). I hope you enjoy :)

chapter 11: no angel debating

Los Angeles, July 12, 1948

Along the turquoise diner bench, brimmed with infectious laughter and amusing exchanges, sit two of Riza's most favorite people: her son Elio and Rebecca Catalina.

In Rebecca's hand is a blue crayon, clamped between her fingers, anchored in one spot as she once again questions Elio's instruction. The woman constantly looks over the boy's shoulder, grimacing, asking him one more time why her sloppy scrawl of an island has to be colored the same as the ocean. The boy simply replies with, "Because I like blue!"

In front of Elio is a square book, pages turned to a scribble of large texts with a sketch of a girl wearing a pirate hat in one corner. Elio's short finger underlines each word, slow and careful, his expression revealing the eagerness of a student learning a new trick, with innocent, brown eyes bulging against flushed complexion. The boy is reading aloud, once again dictating Rebecca's clumsy hand as she paints his phrase (a palm tree) onto a sheet of paper. From the way Rebecca's shoulders droop, Riza knows the tree must be colored blue yet again.

With a mane of striking dark hair, mesmerizing violet eyes, and a smile more brilliant than diamonds, Rebecca was everything Riza aspired to be as a child. Unlike Riza, hardened by a traumatic incident and a less than ideal upbringing, Rebecca hailed from a prosperous working-class household with a loving family. Equipped with such normalcy, Rebecca had viewed the universe as a largely beautiful and redeemable place. And with this vision, she carried with her an unquenchable optimism that propelled her into the business of saving the world, one mission at a time.

They were enrolled at the academy in Northamptonshire, both barely graduated, young and eager to help the cause. Though at first they had only regarded each other as acquaintances by way of hallway greetings, one uninterested to learn who the other was, Rebecca's meddling in every cadet (male cadets)'s affair eventually struck a nerve in the blonde's mind. Why is she even here in the first place, Riza would scrutinize, surely her parents could afford her a nice, civilian job at their accountancy firm and a handsome husband to boot. Riza had guessed that the woman's true motivation was probably something foolish and dense like... finding a soulmate.

But weeks went by. After a grueling day of field training - shooting rifles and wrestling cadets to victory - Riza finally realized that the woman's motivation was just about as sincere as hers, soulmate or no soulmate. "Sorry about your head darling, but I plan to make the world the best place to live for my unborn children," Rebecca had said, cackling and pinning Riza to the ground, her taut arm on the blonde's throat.

Now here is Rebecca, over a decade later, perching beside Elio and entertaining him like the most doting aunt a boy can ever have. She doesn't have a child to care for. Instead, she is married to an American husband she met in the field, an ex-OSS agent, handsome and deeply devoted, but paralyzed from the waist down during a critical assignment. Presently, what awaits her in the daytime is a humble job at her in-laws' general store, several miles away from the heart of the city, a long way from danger and the arduousness of her previous occupation.

"Here's your coffee," Riza says, clinking the white mug against the wooden table. Serving a plate full of eggs in front of Elio, she asks her friend, "You sure you don't want to eat, Becca?"

The brunette shakes her head. "No thanks. The latest diet fad is to skip breakfast."

With skepticism, Riza replies, "Alright, but don't go sticking your fork in Elio's breakfast. He needs to eat before Roy picks him up." She peers at the yellow book. "What are you two reading anyway?"

"Pippi in the South Seas," Rebecca answers, catching a glimpse of Riza with a stretched-out smile. "Don't worry, we're almost done with the book. Then he can eat." Gently, she nudges the boy on the shoulder, winking with mischief. "Right, Elio?"

"Yes, Aunt Becca," he responds, grinning toothily, his fawn-like eyes closed into a slit. "If you're hungry you can have some of my food."

Rebecca squeals, her face widening, "Oh Elio, you are so goshdarn cute!" Swiftly, the brunette gathers the boy tight with her arms, twirling his body around until the grin is wiped off of his small face, the boy rasping to be let go.

When all is said and done, Elio crawls to the inner end of the booth where wall meets cushion. His stare is absorbed on the oval plate, the fork lifted to scramble the sunny side up eggs into a puddle of yellow and white. The blue-filled doodle of a pirate map is now neatly folded against the wall, Pippi on the South Seas atop it, holding it in place.

"So how's it going with Mustang?" Rebecca asks, bringing the rim of the cup to her lips.

Riza blinks in amazement. "You get straight to the point, don't you?"

"Yes, and that's why you love me," states Rebecca, giggling. With a knowing smirk, she adds, teasingly, "Is he still as handsome as before?"

Rebecca always has a way of easing up a heavy topic of discussion. In a playful fashion, Riza tilts her head sideways, looking into the distance. She exhales a long, dreamy sigh with a hand cupping her cheek. Like an infatuated schoolgirl. "Yes. Yes, he is. I think his age has made him even more refined actually. And his body is still as attractive as ever." It is meant as a joke. But after hearing it spoken aloud only then Riza realizes that every word of it is true. Even her swooning over him is something she might do, even if only in private.

Laughing boisterously, Rebecca quips, "Maybe Elio will have a brother soon. Or a sister."

Riza's eyes narrow, her lips slender into a horizontal line. "Ha-ha, very funny, Becca." But she can feel heat rise to her cheeks.

At the mention of his name, Elio looks up, curious. Endearingly, Rebecca pokes his fleshy cheek, earning a reflexive blink from the boy, which Rebecca returns with a fond ruffle of his disheveled hair. "Nothing, Elio. Auntie's just making a conversation with your mum."

Ridding herself of the naughty look, Rebecca asks, a seriousness about her, "Really though, how is Mustang with Elio?"

With a slight shift in posture, Riza confesses, "A doting father as far as I've seen. There isn't a day he's not taking Elio out, and there isn't a day Elio isn't asking about him. I don't know what to do..."

Rebecca eyes her disputably. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"Yes, but…" Riza answers apprehensively, "it's only good if he decides to stay."

"Why won't you let him stay on with the War Department and keep him around?" Rebecca inquires thoughtfully, lacing herself with caffeine in between her words. "So far he's come back safe and sound, not a nasty scratch on his body. And he's been on more missions than both of us combined. I'd say his survival record is looking pretty good."

Straightening her spine until it is strenuously vertical, Riza counters, "No. I don't think so."

Defiantly, Rebecca retorts, "Come on, Ri. Wouldn't you say it's at least a little unfair to tell a man to leave his job? His career?"

"He's either in Elio's life or not. I've already made the mistake of introducing him as his father when he first showed up. That little slip up could set Elio up for disappointment if he does decide to leave," Riza snarls with a bitterness on her tongue.

The clinking of silverware against ceramic abruptly stops. Feeling Elio's quiet gaze on her, Riza wonders, with a tinge of remorse and a palpitating pulse, if her assertion will have any effects on the five year-old. Is he old enough to discern their conversation? What if Elio grows up hating his father for his mother's statement? She would only have herself to blame.

Righting herself in her seat, Rebecca presses, reasoning, "Look. I'm sure if he just explains he has a kid waiting for him, perhaps they'll send him on a less dangerous mission. Then he'll have more time to spend at home."

"You know it doesn't work like that."

The brunette bites back, "Well, what if this is his dream? What then?"

The overhead fluorescent light seems glaring in this instance. It is so bright and blinding it feels as though she's just stepped out into the sun after being kept in a solitary prison. Riza's head spins for a second, her eyes turning into slits, a wince on her expression. Rebecca's question echoes in her mind.

In the overwhelming moment, irritable and frustrated, Riza hisses at her friend, "You of all people should know this better than anyone, Becca. The last time you were on a mission, Jean didn't exactly come back in one piece, did he? You think I'd take that chance with Roy?"

Time comes to a standstill as silence permeates. The sizzling noises of the diner, the scraping of Elio's fork against his plate, all of these sound so distant now that the air about her is filled with remorsefulness and shame. Only then she realizes it's too late. There is no possibility to take it all back.

For all she knows, Riza has just dug up a painful memory Rebecca has spent years trying to bury in the recesses of her mind. "I'm sorry, Becca," Riza says, looking into her friend's eyes with sincerity, full of guilt, "that was very, very inconsiderate of me. I'm so sorry."

"You're right," Rebecca answers reflectively, a weak smile curving on her lips. There's no spite, only a hint of regret suffused in her tone. Her shoulders sink as she breathes out, fingers lightly tapping the half-drunk coffee mug. "I should have thought about what I said. I'm sorry, Riza."

"Please, Becca. Don't apologize. It was my fault," Riza insists, taking her friend's clammy hand into hers, gripping it with consolation. "And how's Jean doing?"

With a weary sigh, Rebecca replies, "He's doing alright. But I think he's been missing his old life." Her lips slim as she stares into the black liquid in her hand. "He misses it a lot. He won't stop talking about it."

Before Riza can concur, Rebecca plops herself against the backrest - a loud swoosh - her arms folded below her breasts. "But it's not like he can just stand up and walk himself there. So it looks like he's got no choice but to stay home with me." She grins absurdly, an effort to alleviate the gravity of her husband's predicament.

"Becs," Riza mutters, hesitant, "do you miss the field?"

"Of course I do. There's not a day I don't think about it," the brunette says wistfully, "at first, it was the thrill; I missed that feeling, the adrenaline rush... and the spontaneous planning. But you know what's funny? I don't miss the thrill anymore and yet I still want to return."

"So you regretted retiring with Jean?"

Her fingers brace the cup stoutly, the tips turning white. "No, I didn't say that. I have absolutely zero regrets when it comes to Jean. It's just… we were both forced to move on from all of that sooner than expected..." She looks up at Riza. "What about you?"

"There were nights I dreamed I was back in the field," Riza narrates, quietly, "and this may sound terrible, but the highlight of my day is when Armstrong comes to visit and tells me stories about his missions. Just hearing about it makes me... giddy."

At the jingling of bells by the entrance, Riza tilts her head up. Edward, one of the diner regulars and Winry's husband, along with his son Nicolas are walking in, hand-in-hand. Similar to his father, Nicolas' yellow fringe extends past his ears, longer than most boys his age. A mischievous grin, toothy and spread across half his face, always plays on the boy's lips. He looks as though he's got a trick up his sleeve, pulled out at the most inconvenient times. A look he shares with his father.

"Hiiii!" Elio shrieks, draining his voice from the excitement at seeing the four-year-old. Slipping himself under the table, Elio snakes his way out of the restriction of the booth, crawling to freedom. Both boys pile up their chatter without a halt in their breath, giggling, swapping riveting tales of Captain Silver and The Sea Hound... until Nicolas decides to wrestle for a miniature toy truck from his father's leather bag.

With a drawn out astonishment, Elio studies the metal toy in his friend's hand, his eyes as bright as sunshine by the time Nicolas finishes prying apart the truck bed from its shell. Elio's half eaten meal is quickly forgotten. In his mind, there is only fun and games.

Approaching Riza's table, the young father rubs the back of his head, ruefully apologizing, "I'm sorry, Miss Riza. My mother isn't feeling too well today, so I brought Nicolas with me. I'll make sure to keep watch of him so he doesn't bother Winry."

Winry joins them from the kitchen, seeking an explanation from her husband, a clenched up egg beater around her fingers. Between the numerous apologies and Winry yelling at Edward, Riza interferes with a lighthearted laugh, a sympathetic look towards the blond man. Kindly, Riza suggests, a small smile curling her mouth, "Roy is taking Elio to the observatory today. Edward, I know you have to work later in the day. So if you two won't mind, I can ask Roy to bring Nicolas along. I think the children will have fun together."

"If you are fine with that, Miss Riza, that would be great," Edward beams. "Oh, by the way, there's a strange man loitering in front of your store. I just thought you should know."

Swiftly, Elio runs to his mother's side, Nicolas in tow beside him. With a flustered appearance about him, the boy interrupts, tugging on Riza's short sleeve, "Mom... I saw the same man at the park with dad." Pointing his short finger at the window, the boy states innocently, "He's looking inside the restaurant."

Riza pokes out her head, gaze aimed at the storefront, scanning the perimeter.

Under the shady awning, at the edge of the glass window, the nice gentleman who greets her at 5AM each morning captures her vision.

Among the passersby in thin shirts and slacks, the man stands out like a sore thumb. His pork pie hat is slanted on his head, with a tweed jacket too thick for a blistering, summer day. It's understandable that Edward identifies him as a loiterer; his piercing stare into the restaurant alone is anything but discreet. He lingers like a stalker, pacing about the curb with restive feet, his hands clasped behind his back. The man's gesture is intentional, almost taunting, a hunter luring its prey.

Without another word, Riza springs up from her seat. Rushing to the exit, with the door slamming behind her, she confronts the man in the bustling street.

Except he beats her to the punch, boldly pulling her aside to a quieter corner and hitting her with some startling information. The man speaks very fast in a dignified English accent, but his voice is flat and emotionless, as if he's reading directly from an index card, "Riza Hawkeye, rank Lieutenant just before her indefinite leave of absence from Special Operations Executive. Speaks seven different languages with fluency, a firearms specialist, trained in hand-to-hand combat with high proficiency," Peeking inside the diner, he adds with a tone less sure than what he's been spouting, "Age thirty-one, soon to be thirty-two, and mother of Elio Hawkeye... Or is it Elio Mustang?"

Riza simply stares, stoic, seemingly unaffected. Years of training seeps in. To most people, their emotions typically display under such pressure. But she keeps quiet, her expression unchanged as she collects her thoughts.

The man claps unabashedly, his bushy, grey mustache bobbing as he exerts laughter. "Outstanding! You don't succumb under scrutiny!" He mellows down. Then, hushedly, his hand covering the side of his mouth, he asks, "Can we speak? Preferably somewhere with a little bit more privacy?"

With a reluctant stride, Riza leads the man inside the diner. Her son and Nicolas are prattling by the jukebox, Edward handing Elio a silver coin for the boy to insert into the machine. Dinah Shore's upbeat melody satisfies the space. She passes Rebecca. Sensing the fleeting breeze, the brunette looks up. Riza shoots her a sideway glance, blinking once, a furtive signal that alerts her friend of a looming trouble.

Unexpectedly, Elio skulks over, floating away from under Edward's watch and towards the older man as they take their seats in the back of the diner. With the enthusiasm of a child, lacking politeness, Elio accosts, all in one breath, "Hey, you're the old man from the park!"

Riza extends an arm, attempting to reach Elio when her periphery finds Rebecca crossing the floor, approaching. But the bespectacled old man amiably leans towards the boy, smiling. He nods, his voice courteous and accommodating, "Yes, I am. How do you do, Elio?"

In his most refined manner, Elio replies, "I'm doing very well, sir. I am playing with my friend Nicolas until daddy gets here. Hey, you want to see what I'm reading?"

"Elio, let's not bother mummy," Rebecca steps in, resting guiding hands on the boy's shoulders, "we can finish reading Pippi with Nicolas."

Before Rebecca can steer the boy away, Elio inquires, his shoulders shrugging the brunette's hand, "Wait! Mom, when is daddy picking me up for the obse- orbser…?"

Riza's eyes soften. She articulates with patience, slow enough for Elio to follow, "Observatory."

"Ob-ser… va-tory," Elio repeats, enunciating, syllable by syllable.

Gently smoothing her son's jutting hair, Riza says, smiling, "That's right. Dad will be here in a couple of hours. Now go on and read with Auntie Becca, alright Elio?"

As the old man trails Elio's lackadaisical gait, with Rebecca shepherding the child away, he tells Riza rather confidently, "The boy looks exactly like his father. I wasn't sure at first, because there was no record of the father's name on the birth certificate. There were only rumors, you see. But I'll be damned; they're two peas in a pod."

She skips past his remark as though he has never said them. Instead, she sends a mock smile his way. "I'd offer you coffee, but I don't plan on letting you stay for long." Then she charges harshly, "So tell me now. Who are you and what do you want?"

Setting his hat down on the table, he answers, "My name is George Grumman. I'm a recruiter with the Secret Intelligence Service."

Plainly, Riza intones, "Ah I know what this is. I'm sorry but I am not interested. Besides, I've retired ages ago."

As he sneaks out a box of cigarettes from his jacket, the recruiter corrects, "No, that's not true. You've only submitted a leave of absence, which was approved by your superior Lieutenant-Colonel Hughes, now Brigadier Hughes, for an undisclosed reason. There's no file anywhere about your retirement."

She insists with a coldness, "Well either way, I'm not interested."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Grumman says cautiously, lighting his tobacco, "but if you weren't interested, you would have resigned instead of submitting a leave of absence."

At this, she can sense her skin perspiring, uneasiness descending in her chest, persistent and bothersome. All she can do is look at him pointedly, piercing daggers with her eyes. The man isn't wrong.

Grumman resumes, fixing the position of his glasses with the push of a finger, blowing out a haze with the other, "I know you've unofficially consulted Alex Armstrong with some document translations pertaining to his missions." He chuckles, as if amused, "Well, this has been going on for a number of years actually. Isn't that right?"

Riza exerts a dry cough at the cloud of smoke. It's been years since she last clamped a roll in between her teeth. Keeping her composure by bunching the uniform skirt in her hand, she finds her fingers clenching it as she speaks, "Alex needed help and he came to me."

There is no malice in his timbre. "So is that a favor for a friend or is there more to it than that?"

When she is mute, the old man smiles cunningly. "If I have to take a guess, perhaps an innate desire to help the country? Does that sound about right?"

She tries to sound determined and fierce with her answer; in her head, the words ring out like a declaration. But her throat seems to have run dry and her voice croaks instead, weak and unconvincing, "I have a family... I can't do this anymore."

He hums with a cleverness about him. "If you just recall your first year in academy, Miss Hawkeye. I believe you said you joined because, and I quote-" Taking out a small, black notebook from his jacket pocket, Grumman reads, expelling a billow, "'Thomas Paine describes best my dedication to the service, 'The world is my country, all mankind are my brethren, and to do good is my religion'.'" Looking up at Riza, he gloats with a self-satisfied smile, "Should I keep going and read your statement about world peace?"

Her teeth grit as she answers, "I was nineteen."

Shrugging nonchalantly, Grumman ruffles the notebook back into his pocket. "Nineteen. Thirty-two. What does it matter? This is your life mission, if I may so myself."

"And I stand to reason that I was a young woman with a naive ideology," Riza attests, pulling a deep, tranquilizing breath.

Into the ashtray, he tamps down the drag with a finger. "But you've always cared about the country and the people. During the Great Depression, you helped out at the food bank every single day. And a little source told me you had gone hunting, though illegally, and shot game birds with your friends to give to the poor."

With an assertive finger pressed on the wooden table, Riza contends, "It was the right thing to do. I think many people would have done the same."

Disagreeing, he tuts his finger side to side. "No, Miss Hawkeye, not everyone would do the same."

Riza maintains as calmly as she can manage, though her thought agrees, even if unadmittedly, "Like I said, I have a family now - a son that I have to worry about. I won't be getting back in the field. That's my final answer."

"Isn't having a family the more reason why you should rejoin? You must protect them at all cost." Fixing his posture upright, Grumman composes a ceremonial expression. The cigarette lies in its circular casket, and he weaves his hands together, pleading with the somberness of someone who has suffered through enough deaths at the hand of war, "Miss Hawkeye, the war is not yet over. In fact, it is only the beginning. You can help end it. Look at the people on the streets. Don't you want to make sure they can go on with their lives without worry?"

Obediently, she gleans at the window. She sees a pair of young lovers, arm in arm, uncontainable affection in the way their fingers collide. Trailing after the couple is a small child in a pink pinafore, both hands stretched out in front of her, as if chasing a butterfly. The girl's mother follows closely behind, calling out her name to stop the girl from venturing too far, an unrestrained laughter now and again as the child flees from her grip. The newspaper boy is there, static since five in the morning, a kid who looks barely seventeen, with the world ahead of him.

The peace Riza has made with herself unravels with each passing second.

It shouldn't be hard for Riza to choose. As a matter of fact, her choice has already been made, that day at the hospital, with baby Elio around her arms. But there's a longing sensation tugging beneath her breast, aching, seeking a second chance. It erodes her conviction, ever so steadily. Please, it cries out, helping others is your calling; it's what you've always wanted.

But Riza stomps her oxfords against the floor, a derisive clack, reprimanding herself into certainty. She stares at the man, unyielding, "Being here, with my son, is protecting him."

"Ahh speaking of family," he says wittingly, "your father was researching chemical weapons during the First World War, specifically chlorine gas and its countermeasures. He saved a damn good number of soldiers with his research. And just before that unfortunate incident, he began studying nuclear chain reaction, claiming it could prevent many wars to come, which we know now would've been the case had he been able to continue."

All of a sudden her feet feel slippery inside her soles, her hands moist. "Where are you going with this?" she asks with suspicion.

"I believe that you want to help our cause, Miss Hawkeye." And with a beaming smile across his face, a mien that exudes victory, Grumman adds, "Berthold was an astounding father, I'm sure, to be able to raise such a fine daughter like yourself. But he was also dedicated to helping others and his country. And that is just like you. It's true what they say, that the apple doesn't fall very far from the tree."

Riza's expression darkens, her blood boiling underneath her skin. Her voice is sharp, admonishing, "You don't know anything about me."

Confused, the recruiter tries to amend himself, "Miss Hawkeye, if I may please explain-"

Severely, she cuts, "No. I've done my thinking and you are not welcomed here anymore. Get out."

"Wait, I-"

Flexing a rigid finger towards the exit, Riza barks loudly, "Get out! Now!"

At the unexpected turn of event, Grumman's expression falters, daubed by resignation. He rises and lumbers from the booth, slow, unsure of what has happened. He tucks his hat under one arm with his mouth parting halfway, mumbling, his steps towards the door staggering as the man's mind, no doubt. Luckily, her teeming diner, crowded with idle talks and regular patrons who could care less about the commotion, takes no notice.

Grumman timidly offers her a last glance, his indecisive hand along the door handle. Beside her, Riza finds her best friend standing stiffly, scowling and pouting at the recruiter, as if berating him on her behalf. At Rebecca's threatening appearance, the old man unhinges his objective, departing Bluebird Diner without another look.

Gently, Rebecca blankets a hand around Riza's shoulder, her brows wrinkling with worry, "Riza, is everything alright?"

The anger about her diminishes rapidly. But equally as fast is the growing feeling of dread, arising too quickly for her to comprehend. The tips of her fingers and toes are numb, the feeling lost sometime during the man's weighty speech. Riza can feel her forehead sticky with sweat, her head throbbing painfully as a violent blow to the face. Why must he mention her father? What good would it do comparing her to him beside stir up some upsetting memories? Worst yet, is it true that she really takes after him?

She can picture her father as vivid as the large clock in the room. A sinister smile, a maniacal laugh from the confines of the sanatorium. His long, yellow hair and gaunt face wispy with smoke before finally transforming into her own face, chiseled at the edges.

Shuddering, Riza finally slumps in defeat. Her lips whimper, rippling with agony, "Rebecca…"

Immediately, Rebecca draws her into an embrace, unrelenting and secured around her quivering form. She rubs Riza's back softly, up and down, over and over. "It's okay, Ri. Everything will be fine. You will be fine."

Hiding red-rimmed eyes in the crook of her friend's neck, Riza exhales a trembling breath, her limbs uncontrollable. Shakily, she surrenders to the comfort, wrapping her arms around her friend's shoulders with the yearning for the day to end.

Around her legs, Riza feels a loose coil of warmth drifting through her skin. Stumbling her sight downward, she discovers Elio, joining his Aunt Becca in her camaraderie, his pool of untidy, black hair lolling against Riza's waist. The boy looks up, a naive gaze that exhibits no understanding of his mother's plight. Still, his hug is strapping and firm around her figure, a strangely consoling sensation amidst the chaos.

When the boy grins - his widest, silliest grin - Riza reflexively returns a fond smile, settling an arm down to brush the boy's messy strands. The space suddenly feels familiar once again, buzzing with the rigorous flow of a life five years in the making.

As Rebecca untwines herself from Riza, the mother drops to her knees. She envelopes her son tightly, protectively, as if apologizing for her weakness, for wavering in her conviction, through the gesture. The scent of baby powder is there, faint on Elio, and the refuge of his small arms around her neck is calming, anchoring her to a renewed vow:

Her son will always be first.